


The Boy Who Died

by craigstalldaddy



Category: South Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-22
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:27:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craigstalldaddy/pseuds/craigstalldaddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle dies, the ghost of Kenny helps him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Died

It was dark within his room. Shadows hung all around him as he sat upon his bed, the comforter brought up to his lap as he sat upright, but kept his eyes upon the hands he kept resting in his blanket. He minded not the shadows – they’d become a part of him.  
Cards and flowers sat about for the young boy, wishing him well in various ways, reminding him that people would hate to see him go through soft colours and smells. Deep within the heart that no longer worked, he knew they’d be so disappointed. Those of them who knew him not would wish they had. Those of them which knew him slightly would be grateful he no longer suffered, saying he was with the gods now. However, those of them who loved him – his mother and father, his best friend, his brother – they would weep and weep, they would weep until they ended up like he. He minded not the weeping – those of them who loved him had done nothing but so, as of late. The thought made him miserable, still.  
He picked up his head and gazed all around the room. The hospital bed felt cold, the air felt even colder. The door to his room was shut; the curtain was pushed open to reveal the emptiness of his place. The television was turned off, and in the dim reflection he could see himself lying in his bed with his eyes closed. With a tear in his eyes of green, he threw his bare legs over the edge of the bed. His melancholy would reach no further than this room, upon where he rest, forevermore.  
His pale, frail hand maneuvered into his hair, vivacious curls of auburn. He could remember a time when he despised those wicked uglies. A spit of ignominy still fell upon his malnourished shoulders at the feature, but now it was different – he could not even experience the straw-like feeling of his curls anymore as his fingertips twisted them between each other. It made him almost wish he’d been less insecure, so that he could touch his hair more often, and unmistakably remember what it felt like when his time came. Now it had, and he could just barely remember.  
His hand moved down to his face, down to his sunken cheeks and horrid bags that rested beneath his eyes. A tear he would never feel rolled down to his fingertips. Why had he never felt his face before? Had he been too ashamed by his malnourishment and unsightly paleness?  
If, perhaps, his cheerful but hushed companion was still around, he'd have been encouraged to love himself. Love your body while he can, he'd say. You're beautiful even now, he'd say. He'd mean it as those words came from a form hidden behind a jacket of orange. He'd mean it and he'd never allow any other possibility to come muffled from his mouth. He'd mean it in quiet, gentle assurances. He was young as the recently deceased "he", true as true, but he loved his companions, even if he did so quietly. It was a shame that he had left this earth to join those in the heavens but a year prior, when this boy's body was just beginning to fail him. He held it to him not, for he was very sure that, if he could, he'd have been with him each step of the way and other best companions. At least he did not have to see him pass so miserably, so obviously, and could meet him well up in the heavens.  
Just then, a knock came from the door if his room. He wiped his tears away quickly, though he knew his guest would most likely see him restful and unmoving upon his bed and underneath his sheets. It opened, allowing a great, brilliant light to shine into the dark and dismal room. And then, as if by some incredible miracle, he arrived! The dear friend of which the recently deceased had longed for! He looked just as he had before, wearing his orange parka with its hood pulled tightly upon his face with his dog tags dangling around his neck. They read just as they had all his life – his name – “McCormick, Kenny” – and his address.  
Oh, he was so excited to see him, he was! Kenny skipped into the room, shut the door behind him and ambled over to his bedside, greeting him with a brilliant smile. He smiled as well and pulled himself back upon the bed.  
With his arms folded on the bed and his chin rested upon his arms, Kenny conversed.  
Long time no see! I’ve missed you!  
I’ve missed you, too. Why are you here, though?  
For you.  
For me?  
Kenny smiled again with delight as he absent-mindedly toyed with the blankets, tracing the design with his index finger. As if he’d suddenly grown uncomfortable, he unfolded his arms and squatted down upon the floor, grasping the side of the bed for support. Soothingly, he told his companion that he hardly looked sick, and that he looked like he could still take down any jerk that stood in his way.  
He told him that he knew he was only saying that.  
Kenny insisted, saying, no, you look a lot better than I do underneath my hood!  
He told him that that wasn’t saying much, and that nobody looks well when infected with the plague.  
Kenny laughed, and then stood suddenly. With a vivacious smile still upon his face, he asked his friend if he remembered the time they had an adventure in Peru?  
He frowned, commenting on how awful that experience was, and how Craig Tucker still hated all four of them.  
Kenny asked him if he’d ever do it again, if he could.  
He told him that he wouldn’t.  
Falling down unto the bed on his back, Kenny kicked his feet idly as they dangled off the edge of the firm mattress. He kept his gaze upon the ceiling as he told his friend that he’d do it again a million times over. But then, he changed the subject, asking if he remembered the time he joined him at Jewbilee?  
He blinked, then laughed as he remembered. He commented on how awful Jew Scouts was, and how much he and his baby brother hated it.  
Kenny told him that it was the best way to spend an evening in his opinion, and how he’d love to, perhaps, do things like that with his little sister.  
He told him that his brother wasn’t too fascinated with Judaism, or anything of the sort. He then told him that they’d probably have more fun in something less religious, perhaps more artistic – his brother was utterly fascinated with the arts.  
With a cheery laugh, he asked him about the time he’d learn to sing opera.  
He said unto him that he had the best singing voice in all of South Park – no, in all of Colorado!  
Kenny chuckled and sat upright. He thanked his friend and said that that was a silly overstatement, that he only started singing because Cartman had told him to.  
The recently deceased cursed the name. What a good for nothing piece of crap!  
A frown curved down Kenny’s smile. He told his friend that he should give Cartman more credit. He told him, he helped make you what you are, and if he had any part in that, well, he’s pretty alright. He told him, he made me what I am, too, and I’m more than happy as I am.  
He frowned as well, saying that he had no reason to dislike himself. Distantly, he informed his friend, of course you’re right pleased with yourself, you’re better than most people in town, whereas I look like crap and feel like it, too.  
Kenny wagged a finger at his friend with a confident yet peaceful grin back upon his face. He informed his companion that he was perfect as he was, and that any other He would just not be the same. He informed him that, while he did have flaws, it was those exact flaws that made him the best He around, messy curls and all. Then, he sighed. He sat criss-cross on the bed and grabbed his friend’s hands, saying naught. His peaceful smile melted into a thoughtful frown.  
The curly-haired boy did the same and gazed confusedly upon his friend. He hesitated, and then asked him again why he was here.  
Kenny said that he was here for him, and then asked him what he wanted him to do now that he found him.  
He said that he wanted to go.  
Kenny asked him where he wanted to go.  
Where ever it is you go when you die, he told him.  
Kenny asked him why.  
He told him that he was ready, that he wanted to go.  
They hesitated for a moment, but then Kenny stood up slowly, taking his friend in tow. They walked, hand in hand, to the door of his hospital room, and then paused.  
“Are you ready, Kyle?” asked Kenny.  
He shook his head and squeezed his friend’s hand as he answered, “I am now.”  
Kenny opened the door and a bright light flooded the room, consuming the shadows that filled it. He smiled lovingly at his friend, and together, they walked into its brightness.  
The door shut tightly behind them and the room fell dark again. Kyle was in his bed, his eyes shut, his heart no longer beating. People will cry, people will mourn. Simply, that’s just what they do.


End file.
